The Warrior's Peace
by sniperrifle001
Summary: Four years after his induction into Outcome, at the edge of the world, abandoned and hunted, he finds his salvation and his peace in a steely brunette, who for whatever reason, seems to have become fond of him as well.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

His regular rhythm was returning. Although he clear wasn't the first one up as indicated by the feint footsteps above, he had beaten the dawn. He propped himself out of the cot and peered out of the window of the cabin to confirm what his senses had already told him. They had anchored. The sky was a feint blue that still receded into the darkness of the night just a few degrees from the horizon. And while he knew the sun would not appear over the mountain face for at least another few hours, for him the day had begun.

For so he thought until a shooting pain wrestled his leg as he tried to stand up. For a moment, a brief moment before, in that state between dream and reality, he had forgotten the events of the past day. He had forgotten that he had been shot. His body was happy to remind him. He looked down his bandaged leg. With a bit of focus he could bend his knee and raise his leg. There was a minimal amount of pain. It was the surprise that got him the first time.

Still he figured it was best to change his dressings as often as possible as their current locality precluded him from extensive medical care and it was always better to be safe than sorry. As he sat at the edge of his bed and brushed the translucent curtains away to allow more of the pre-sun light to fill the room so he could see what exactly he was doing. He took the bandage roll off of the nightstand beside him and pulled out two feet of it. He carefully undid the bandage from the day before, making a point not keep the gauge in place as the bounds loosened. He revealed the wound to the soft azure ambience of the morning light; not much change from the day before.

He doused left hand in isopropyl and rubbed it into his right. Then he again put some into the base of his palm and pressed it into the wound. To him, it stung no more than an extra minty toothpaste. He slowly counted down in his head from fifteen, with his lips silently mouthing the words.

"… ten… nine… eight… seven…" His ghost words filled the silent cabin.

"I could've done that for you, you know," Marta said lying in the bed opposite, with her hands placed underneath her pillow, half-watching, half-sleeping.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Aaron replied.

"You didn't," Marta replied with a meek smile.

"You don't sleep much do you?" Aaron asked as he placed clean gauss down on the wound.

"It's hard to sleep," Marta replied.

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Aaron concurred.

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" Marta said still staring at him from the comfort of her pillow.

"I'm not the superhuman you believe me to be." Aaron said as he wrapped the bandage around his leg.

"A little bit tighter," Marta said raising her head from the pillow just a bit.

"Tighter?" Aaron asked.

He quickly undid the bandage and re-wrapped it tighter. "Like that?"

"Yeah." Marta confirmed.

"It's a little numb." Aaron remarked.

"That's normal; just give it a few minutes for the blood to circulate." Marta reassured him as she sat up revealing her legs, grabbing his attention but only for a brief moment.

"I've never been shot before." Aaron said gently rubbing the gauss and flattening the surface of the bandage.

"Really?" Marta let out with a genuine sense of shock.

"Why is that surprising?" Aaron asked.

He pushed himself off of the bed, putting most of his weight on his good leg. Slowly, he started to pace back and forth, warming up his damaged leg, deliberately maintaining a pace in which his weight was never long on his weaker side. Marta jumped to her feet and quickly rushed to support him. His hand intercepted hers as she reached out to him.

"Don't push yourself too hard." Marta said watching his facial expression intently.

"How long before my leg is fully healed?" Aaron asked.

Marta looked down at the bandages. His thighs seemed to be fully functional despite the hole in it. She put her hand on his forehead, he was sweating a bit, but his temperature wasn't too high; he didn't appear to have a fever. She then checked his pulse, it quickened just as she touched his neck with her index and middle finger. A feint smile slipped from her face.

"In and out, no fever means no broken bones…" Marta said. "For you, two weeks, give or take. You should be as good as new."

"Good." Aaron replied with a cheeky smile.

After breakfast at the fishermen's table, who seem to have grown fond of the foreign curiosities on his boat, they disembarked onto the docks of the many islands that dotted the surrounding landscape. Marta had noticed the sparse population of the area and delighted in the idea of an island getaway. Aaron was less enthusiastic about the prospect. They made their way down the wooden docks, her; taking in the sights of the locals and breathing deep breaths of relief as the immediate danger of their pursuers seemed to have abated, he; surveying each of the vessels docked, looking for a suitable one, perhaps as a getaway option.

But even in his heightened state of paranoia, the gentle caress of the sun and the tropical sea air had dulled even the worst of his fears, for they seemed neither to be close or coming.

"Are we lost now?" Marta asked as she peered into the local shops they passed.

Aaron smiled as he led the way. He thought about what he would tell her, he thought about telling her his plans for the next couple of days, about purchasing a boat and doubling back, he thought about what Byer and his DoD buddies' next move would be, he thought about all these things in tandem with Marta in mind.

Of course he had his answer. "Yeah, we're lost."


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

"When the Spanish colonized the Philippines in the early 16th century, they brought their quintessentially European method of war-making here and their disregard for due process and law. The problem that the Spanish empire had was that despite the fact that they were militarily powerful was that they lacked the legal institutions of France and Britain and so to maintain order they often resorted to intimidation and thuggery. That in combination with their chronic mismanagement of their silver assets left this and the most of their colonies in dire economic trouble. As a result, the Philippines, Mexico, and Cuba, and many others lacked the institutional infrastructure to take advantage of the post-war boom years. It's why the Manila is so much poorer than Hong Kong." Aaron explained as they hiked up the street.

Marta looked back and was surprised by how far up they had climbed. She could see the docks receding into the distance as they made their way deeper into the small island town.

"Didn't realize you were such a historian," Marta replied, enjoying his explanation and his enthusiasm.

"I read a lot," Aaron explained.

"You are full of surprises," Marta said.

"That's what you find surprising?" Aaron asked as turned his head back with an expression of convincing suspicion.

"The guns, the running and jumping, and the karate, I get. I mean, I was in the lab, day in and day out, I didn't do the statistical analysis, but I could infer…" Marta explained.

"And what did you infer about the blue chems?" Aaron asked.

"We just thought that enhanced your reaction time, focus, non-linear problem solving… never really considered curiosity as one of the side effects." Marta explained.

Aaron dropped his head slightly and smiled to himself. He stopped and pulled out the map of the island that the fisherman had given to him. For a moment he surveyed the intersection. Marta quickly caught up with him and tried to look at what he was looking at, although she had no idea what it was. The streets were dusty as the result of a few mopeds that drove by and displaced the loose elements of the road. Marta immediately covered her mouth with her hand. Aaron seemed unfazed. Around them were a row of shacks and old colonial stylebuildings, worn down and unpainted, no doubt financed by the Spanish during their time, Marta deduced.

Aaron folded up the map and tucked it into his back pocket. His eyes squinted slightly as the sun rose above the mountains and momentarily blinded him. He dropped his backpack to the ground and opened it. He removed from it a stack of bills still wrapped in plastic, a switchblade, and an old cellphone. He tore open the plastic wrapping of the bills and divided up the cash into small portions and handed one of them to Marta, along with the switchblade and the cellphone.

"Don't panic, the knife is just for emergencies. You press this button and the blade will come out." Aaron said as he demonstrated. "Make sure your hand stays clear of this opening. There's a pre-programmed number in the phone if you need me."

"And here," he continued as he handed her a small stack of fresh American bills, "you can buy a change of clothes, don't' flash that around, pull out single bills."

"Wait, where are you going?" Marta asked in a genuinely alarmed but subdued voice.

"I need to take care of a few things. You see that bar over there?" Aaron pointed down the road at the building with a beer mug painted on the sign above the entrance.

"Yeah," Marta answered.

"Let's meet there in say… three hours?" Aaron said as he looked at his watch.

"Okay," Marta answered tentatively.

"You sound nervous." Aaron commented.

"Well the last time I left you were we ambushed by the police…" Marta said with a slight hint of embarrassment.

"You have my number." Aaron said as he reached out and held her hand. "You can always call me."

"Okay." Marta answered again, this time with a little more confidence in her tone.

Marta didn't want to move as she watched Aaron leave. He had this way of getting about when he wasn't dragging her along. His speed increased dramatically with each stride until he reached his comfortable pace. He seemed to always be late for something, even when he wasn't. Of course, she had known all of this from her lab reports but she had never seen any of the Outcome subjects in action.

She played with the stack of cash in her hand, half-wondering if this was his way of saying something he hadn't been able to put into words yet, half-wondering where he got the money from. Still, with a quick survey of her surroundings and with no cops or black helicopters she tried to put her mind at ease and do a little shopping.

* * *

His hands trembled a little as he dropped the packet of cream into his coffee. He quickly picked the container out of his coffee and dropped it into the waste bin. Byer had not known sleep in nearly 36 hours. He downed the drink as if it were an energy shot and crushed the paper cup in his hand before tossing it against the wall.

"Who the fuck are these guys?" Kramer asked Byer, as he sat on the couch place against the back wall of the room.

"The best of the best… apparently," Byer said taking a napkin and wiping down his hands.

"Hehehehe, straight from the academy now eh?" Kramer gave a hearty chuckle.

"Apparently, anyone can be an analyst these days. Love Google," Byer said.

The TV hummed in the background with the sound on mute. He watched it at the corner of his eye as the rest of his team filtered through pages upon pages of intelligence reports as junior agents occasionally stop by the briefing room with yet more. The clicking of laptop keys, which at one point had given him the illusion of work, was now getting on his nerves, as frayed as they had been already. The dank fluorescent light that seemed to flicker imperceptibly picked away at his last threads of sanity as failure upon failure mounted upon itself like an avalanche of incompetence.

"Well that's it, LARX is done." He said as he sat himself down in his swivel chair, leaning back on the rest and turning off the TV.

"Damage control teams are on their way, our Manilan contacts are on the ground working with officials and police now," one of his aids reported, trying to maintain an air of professionalism.

"Yeah because those guys are so competent, couldn't even catch the retard and a doctor!" Byer let slip one of his deadly sarcastic attacks. "I can guarantee that the BBC and Al-Jazeera will have this whole thing tied up in a neat little bow in the next few hours."

There was a silence in the room, as expected.

"Can we at least get his body back?" He asked.

"CIA says they are sending an agent to claim him right now." Another one of his aids reported.

Byer sat reclined in his chair, his eyes hidden underneath the shadow of his brow as his head leaned forward watching his thumbs twirl around themselves.

"How many photos?" He asked quietly.

"Of LARX-03?" One of his aids asked.

"Yes… of LARX-03…" Byer replied with seething menace.

"BBC has one, a number of local reporters, a bunch over Twitter from locals—" The aid continued before he was abruptly stopped.

"Fuck!" Byer screamed as he slammed his palms against the table.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck, and fuck you!" He continued as he pointed at each of the aids at the meeting. "Well isn't this just great, a twenty car pile-up, a dozen local police injured or dead, a gun fight out in the middle of the streets with well over a hundred witnesses… and the timing couldn't be better. Might as well just throw us in there with Treadstone and Blackbriar."

His breath returned to him, although his fury could still be seen and heard from his nostrils.

"What about the other two?" he asked lowering his voice again.

There was a moment's pause, but his team knew better than to not answer him. "We lost track of them after LARX-03 went down."

Byer closed his eyes and nodded in prescient disappointment, as if he knew if there was a worst of all possible situations; this was it.

"Okay, here's what you do. First, I want that body back and I want to know _exactly_ what happened! Second, this does not get out, you bring me a cover story, a credible one! That we can feed to the public so you, all of you, and I, don't end up in front of the Senate Intelligence Committee with Landy, and Vosen. And remember, they like the CIA a lot better than they like us." Byer said with complete authority, trying to formulate a damage control plan for what very well may be an unsalvageable situation.

Kramer smiled to himself.

"Uhh, sir?" One of his aids began.

"What?" Byer's impatience returned.

"What about Aaron Cross and Doctor Shearing?" His aid asked.

"Who gives a shit? They just escaped with their lives, if the know what's good for them, they'll stay away." Byer said dismissively.

"Shouldn't we at least put a taskforce on them?" His aid insisted politely.

"Alright…" Byer said in an unexpectedly calm tone. "You want this? You got it, put together your team. Whatever you can scrape together with your clearance, but if you fail, I can guarantee that it won't be me in federal prison. Understand?" Byer made his case to the overly-enthusiastic aid.

The young analyst said nothing.

"Good," Byer said as his mercurial rage subsided once again.

A few moments of silence passed as the petrified junior staff as well as Director Kramer watched Byer packed up his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase and left the room, but not before emphatically slamming the door behind him.

* * *

His fingers gently grazed the edge of the glass catching the condensation on its way down. Occasionally he would glance up at the television, watching the news from Manila, but never for too long. He knew there was a possibility that his face would appear on the screen but really he was watching for Marta's sake. He had his identities lined up, at least for the next three airports but he didn't have any more documentation for her. He sat at the rendezvous bar sipping on a glass of cold water.

The bartender came over and switched the channel to a sports channel.

"Sorry, were you watching that?" He asked in his thickly accented but perfectly comprehensible English.

"No, it's fine." Aaron said with a cordial smile.

"Your guy just arrived." The bartender said as his nudged his head towards the doorway.

Aaron slowly turned from his stool to see the lanky figure dressed in fatigues carrying a briefcase along with two other men, probably bodyguards. He made eye contact with Aaron but did not say anything. He sat at a table near the window looking out onto the street, evidently checking if he had been tailed. When he was satisfied with inspection, he gestured at Aaron to join him at the table.

Aaron walked over and sat himself down on the chair opposite. The larger of his bodyguards came and reached out to pat him down. Aaron quickly grabbed the arm and without so much as leaving his seat hammerlocked him and pinned him to the table.

"I'm telling you right now, I'm armed and I'm not giving it up. But if it is all the same to you, I'd like to get this done without shooting anyone," Aaron said calmly.

The man sitting across from him smiled.

"That's good," he replied amusingly in the native accent. "I would like that too. But would you please release my man?"

Aaron released his hold on the man's wrist. He recoiled his arm back into its proper position and gave Aaron a menacing but ultimately harmless stare.

"So, do you have my money?" The man asked ignoring his bodyguard.

"It's not yours yet. And I would like to know see what I'm paying for," Aaron replied.

"Very well," the man said with a smile. He unlocked his briefcase and took out a dozen passports.

Aaron took them and flipped through them inspecting their legitimacy.

"I was expecting a bit more… variety," Aaron commented.

"Look around," the man replied. "Not many tourists here, we get what we can."

Aaron parsed through them a picked out five.

"I'll take the British, Australian, and three American passports." Aaron said handing the rest of the stack back.

"Why do you need so many passports?" the man inquired.

"Thought you were smarter than that," Aaron replied cryptically.

"I thought you Americans like to talk," the man leaned back on his chair trying to lighten the apparent mood.

"Who says I'm American?" Aaron rhetorically asked.

The man smiled again, pinching back his lips as if holding his tongue. His fingers danced at the edge of the table, rhythmically betraying, although wholly unnoticed by himself, his patience and nerves. From the suitcase he pulled out three boxes of ammunition and slid it over the Aaron. He opened the box and out slid 20 bronze coloured 9-mm rounds. Aaron pulled out his gun slowly to show the men across from him that he meant no harm. He ejected the half-magazine onto the table and then proceeded to weigh each bullet in his hand before popping it into the magazine.

"Satisfied?" The man asked.

"Where's the PSG-1?" Aaron asked.

"Where do you think I'm going to get a police grade sniper rifle? You know how I know you're an American?" The man said as his accent grew thicker along with his contempt. "It is because you're spoiled. You don't care where it comes from, you just want it. You think you can buy everything…"

There was a long pause.

"So you didn't bring it," Aaron said.

After another brief stare down, the man waved to his other bodyguard. The man standing behind him walked over to the table and placed down an old but well-kept Soviet era rifle on the table.

"SVD," Aaron commented.

"Russian weapons are easier to find," he explained.

Aaron removed the magazine from the rifle and inspected along with the rest of it, piece by piece. He looked through the scope and aimed it outside to check the focus and the distance. He was familiar with the SVD Dragonov, but he hadn't worked with one in years. It was big, it was cumbersome, and it didn't collapse into concealable parts. Slowly it dawned on him that without the American government supporting him, that cheap, outdated, Soviet made equipment was going to become the norm.

"Are you satisfied?" The man asked with increasing impatience.

Aaron placed his backpack on the table and took out a few stacks of cash and laid it out for the man in fatigues to inspect.

"Fifteen thousand," Aaron said.

"You said twenty…" The man reminded Aaron of their agreement.

"You said, you could get me a real sniper rifle," Aaron retorted.

The man leaned over on the table, inaudibly muttering to himself in Tagalog, as he counted the cash little by little. Aaron noticed the unease of the bartender watching in dismay as a gun deal was happening in his bar, probably fearing the worst. Aaron give him a reassuring look as if to say _don't worry, I got this_. Aaron packed up the bullets and the passports and dropped them into his backpack. He then took the big cumbersome rifle looked at it as it were just a nuisance, stood up, and slung it over his shoulder.

"At least it has a strap," Aaron sighed.

A moment later, as the man finished counting the cash and gave Aaron a nod of approval, the sound of footsteps alerted everyone. His bodyguards immediately went for their guns. Aaron turned around to find Marta with a frightened look on her face. But it soon melted away when she caught a glimpse of Aaron.

"Calm down guys, she's with me." Aaron said with a stern authoritarian tone.

The man in fatigues watched her with a peculiar stare as Aaron approached her. He loaded the cash into in his briefcase and evidently trying to recall something important.

"Do I know you?" The man asked Marta.

A thousand and one thoughts raced through Aaron's mind, _he had been watching the news today_.

"No," Aaron answered simply.

Aaron quickly grabbed Marta by the arm and led her out of the bar.

"What just happened?" Marta asked Aaron, in equal parts terror, confusion, and curiosity.

"I did some shopping too," Aaron replied simply.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

The ambience of the office, the incessant phone calls, the shouting of imperceptible words, the sound of fax machines printing out pages upon pages of documents never to be read in full, did little to bring him comfort as he drifted off into his nap. Yet now, as in his youth, he had grown used to the miasma of perpetual rush as it had given him a real reason to wake up, lest he sleep forever. But this time it was the sound of a slamming door and the heavy footed clicking of shoes that woke him up.

Kramer entered Byer's office and found him laying the couch with a blanket of papers keeping him warm and comfortable. He had not gone home yet, partly because he was a habitual workaholic, partly because he feared a hitman would be waiting for him there.

"Jesus…" Byer said as his eyes opened slightly to look at the intruder. "Don't you have your own office?"

"I'm having it renovated," Kramer said with a slight chuckle as he sat down on Byer's chair.

"I'm glad you find all of this so amusing," Byer replied in his usual dry wit.

"Cheer up, Outcome is gone," Kramer said.

"Seriously? You're here to gloat?" Byer said as he sat up displacing the pages that had covered him.

"I'm here to thank you for your support," Kramer said.

"Don't thank me yet," Byer said as he rubbed his eyes with his left hand while propping himself up with the other. "You think this new round of massacres in Manila is gonna play well for you?"

"Outcome wasn't my project," Kramer said glee in his voice.

"Well that's not how it's gonna play, and LARX? You can forget about LARX," Byer replied.

"Let's not jump the gun quite yet. Investigations on LARX-03 are still ongoing," Kramer said in a faux-professional voice, as if to mock the gravity of the events that had just unfolded.

Byer smiled, his face wore an expression of simultaneous disdain and amusement.

"You think this is gonna distract the Intelligence Committee's heat on you guys?" Byer asked. "Fuck, Treadstone was the beginning of all of this. You know how this is gonna go down? _Six years ago, the CIA presented the Department of Defense with a miracle solution all of our post-911 ills, they promised us a magic bullet, they provided us with all of the science, raw data, and field test reports and they told us to build ourselves a super-soldier. But most importantly, they told us nothing could go wrong. We were as stunned as you guys. Project Outcome was well underway before Jason Bourne ever became an issue._"

Byer adjusted himself to the edge of the couch. Although Kramer may have felt that he was in a superior position at the moment, Byer held out his hands in gestures accenting his confrontational tone, as was his way when making a point, and explained to Kramer if the CIA fell, how Special Operations would not follow.

"See what you seem to think is that we're in the same boat here," Byer continued. "And sure, we might even be. But that's not how it's gonna look, that's not how I'm present it. _I'm as shocked as you are, Senator. We had no idea about the inconsistencies with Treadstone; as soon as we found out, we terminated Operation Outcome. It was the only legitimate thing to do. What's that? I have no idea what happened in Manila, maybe another Treadstone asset that Director Kramer failed to mention. I have reports in detail, explaining the immediate and swift termination of our operation after we found out that the first generation data was unreliable. Evidently, the army takes this a lot more seriously than the CIA."_

"You're full of shit, you know that Ric?" Kramer spat back at him.

"Welcome to the intelligence game…" Byer retorted as he threw the remainder of the papers into the air accenting his inherent deceitfulness of their chosen careers. "Now get the fuck out of my office."

* * *

The trek had been arduous. Or at least it had been for Marta. She couldn't understand why Aaron had decided to take this route. It wasn't a route at all. He had just decided to cut through the thickest part of the jungle. She followed behind him a good several feet as he tried to navigate through the impossibly dense foliage. She had no idea why he didn't want to stay in the village and if this were two days ago, she would have thought him to be crazy. But much had happened in those two days and while this, she could still objectively surmise, was in fact crazy; she trusted him. He had saved her so many times before without hesitation, as if it were no choice at all, even after he had been successfully viralled off, she couldn't imagine Aaron doing her any harm. And even when she wasn't; she felt safe with him.

But it wasn't fun, she sweated through her shirt, necessarily kept on to keep the mosquitos and branches from eating her alive. Just a day ago, she had been running through the city with her sneakers, which had been perfectly adequate then, so woefully lacking now. She had no sense of time as the sun appeared and disappeared by the whims of the tree tops. Often she would think that night had come only to realize it had only been half an hour when the sun remerged when they reached a clearing. Aaron had never trekked too far from her, always backtracking once in a while to make sure that she had enough water to drink or that she hadn't been eaten by a snake. She wasn't even aware that there were snakes around.

Little did she know that it would all be worth it. Five hours after they had left the village, Aaron had led her to a brook in the middle of the jungle. The sun pierced through the fractal pattern of leaves, cascading over the gentle waters that sat below. The water was clear and gently sang its tune as it travelled downstream over the smooth rocks underneath.

"Go ahead, it's clean." Aaron said with heavy breaths, revealing his fatigue. She had so often wondered if he even understood the concept.

Marta leaned over and dunked her face into the water, feeling the coolness remove the sweat and internal heat that had been built up by the day's long journey. She drank in the water, which felt much better than the bottled stuff that she and Aaron necessarily had to carry on their backs.

"Look," Aaron said in his simple way.

Marta turned her head his way. Aaron pulled back the thick foliage to reveal a beach paradise. Marta was stunned; she wondered how she had missed the obvious sound of ocean crashing against the sands. The sea was the colour of that impossible blue she had seen on those vacation brochures she had got in the mail every so often. The sand, as she realized upon her approach, was golden to behold and smooth to the touch. The ocean winds caressed her face as she closed her eyes to give her other senses a chance to enjoy.

"I figured you needed some time to rest." Aaron said as he joined her on the sands. "I got the feeling that you were hoping for a break after I turned your life upside down."

"Thanks." She said as she looked back at him with her hair caught in the tropical wind and an uncontrollable smile upon her face.

Marta dropped her bag onto the sand and started to unbutton her shirt. At first Aaron didn't take much notice, after all he himself had been sweating buckets after their long trek. But as she dropped her white blouse to the ground, it was not the grey undershirt she had on the day before, rather it was a black bikini with gold trim that clung to her.

He had always known of her beauty. He even made a half-hearted pass at her a year ago when she viralled him off the greens. But that was just in jest, and while confidence was one of the side effects of the chems, he was perfectly aware that whatever attraction, company policy dictated that however he had felt should be, and was, prudently removed from his mind. Plus, she was a doctor and he, at best was an isolated maladjusted killer, but more likely, just a thug.

But this, this was different. He watched as she shimmied out of her jeans reveal a bikini bottom that was most definitely meant to tease. He could see half of butt and while he had seen her legs before, he had never seen them in quite that combination before. She looked back at him once again and caught him staring.

He snapped out of it as her eyes caught his. They seemed to be anxious, teasing, and chastising him all at the same time.

"Where'd you get that," Aaron asked, trying to fill the silence.

"You did your shopping…" Marta replied stoic. "I did mine."

* * *

"Alfred Hennessey…" The older operations officer looked at his computer terminal and then back at the young buck standing in front of him. "You're little green for this, aren't you?"

"That's what my peewee coach told me, I've been proving them wrong ever since," the analyst said flashing his signature smile of confidence.

"Making the jump from analyst to operations officer…" The man across the terminal said as he continued to read his file. "Well… congratulations. Welcome to the game, don't strike out."

"Don't worry sir, I don't intend to." He said as received his new badge and key card.

Alfred clipped it to his sport coat and stepped into his new "temporary" office. It faced out towards the grandeur of the New York City skyline, grey and smog filled as it was, he saw an empire, a great American civilization built on the foundations of freedom and opportunity; words that had once inspired him, but that was a long time ago. He sat down in his new comfy leather chair that still smelled of the Mexican factory that it had no doubt been sitting in just a week ago. He thought, _I could get used to this_.

But he wasn't there yet. He could pretend, but he wasn't. Maybe one day he could play king maker, maybe one day he could truly look upon New York and be satisfied with his new position of mastery. But not yet, he had still to execute his plan. Byer had given him time and that's all he really needed. Some called him dishonest, in fact he could name each and every one of them, but he preferred to think of himself as an opportunist. Just like he did with student council in high school, just like he did during exams in undergrad, just like his arguably "stole" his thesis in grad school, he too would now make himself not only known, but formidable.

* * *

The sun cascaded its rays across the clouds scattering the light in countless directions, fracturing what once was a continuous flood of gold into pieces of pink, purple, and blue that fell upon their idyllic homestead. Aaron stood upon the rocks looking out onto the endless sea as it continually processed towards the shore, crashing against the beach and receding only to do it all over again with celestial regularity.

He played with his rifle aiming into the distance trying to figure out if the scope was functioning well enough to be useful. But there was nothing in the region to test its accuracy. The best he could do was peak at Marta when she enjoying the water. He wondered to himself how he got here. Just a few days ago, he was in the blistering cold of Alaska, fighting, voluntarily to be sure, for his life. Now he was here, in this private Eden, with a beautiful woman he had no right to. What was this new life he had been given? How long could he stay?

"Aaron!" That sweet voice came roaring out of the ocean, harmonious and beautiful.

Aaron lowered the rifle and looked over at her, standing as the waves crashed and dispersed upon her curves.

"Come into the water before it gets too cold," Marta yelled from a distance.

"It's never too cold," Aaron replied from his rock.

"Of course, Superman," Marta replied playfully. "Sometimes, I forget who I'm talking to."

Aaron let loose a genuine smile, that smile he had only first flashed to her the day before on the fishing trawler. It was different than the one he used to seduce stewardesses and charm his way into laboratories. This was the mark of true happiness, a vestige from his past that he thought he no longer had need of. Apparently he was wrong.

He jumped into the cooling water, still infinitely warmer than the lakes of Alaska and approached her. He could see the smile upon her face, accented by the warm glow of the tropical sun. She seemed happy, more than he had expected. He expected relief but he had also expected melancholy. But not this, not joy; he hadn't expected this smile. As he approached her, she lightly splashed him, no more so than the natural waves had been doing.

"I'm not Superman," Aaron said. "I'm only what you turned me into."

"And what's that?" Marta asked.

Every step he took towards her, she retreated in unison as if to give him an extra moment to admire her as the gold lining of her bikini attempted to blind him of that pleasure. She was Venus emerging from her shell. She giggled inexplicably. He had never heard that before, although he had definitely imagined it. Somehow it was sweeter to his ear than his mind could ever conjure.

"Soldier?"

"Spy?"

"Rogue?"

"Human," Aaron replied.

She stopped and as a force unknown had compelled him; he did the same. She stared at him unceasingly. He did the same. But this was not the first time he had looked into her eyes. The first time he did was to check if she was lying about the chems in her house. Now as then, he couldn't read her. He could only behold her immense beauty, natural, and perfect, as he had always known but was of little consequence to his life. Now it was the only thing that mattered.

Neither of them spoke but they understood each other perfectly.

_I know you want to._ She pleaded with her eyes. _Do it._

_Are you sure?_ He replied with no words at all.

_Yes._ A glimmer in her pupil answered.

He reached forward and taking a hold of her by her waist, brought her close to him. Their bodies now intertwined, skin upon skin, eyes upon eyes. His gaze pierced hers; they waited. He could feel her chest rise and fall with the exchange of every breath; he could feel her heart pump ever faster. She had expected him to kiss her, but he wasn't going to make it that easy for her. He had brought her close, it was her turn now. Slowly, her hands rose to cup his cheeks, she closed her eyes and felt every contour and crevice of his face. She listened to the sound of the waves crashing against their bodies, feeling the wetness of the water upon her thighs, the warmth of the fading sun, his battle worn chest, she crafted her perfect moment and committed it to memory before gently planting her lips on to his.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The moonlight bounced off the wetness of her hair creating a perfect silver line that traced every strand of her brunette mane. They hung together, as if one body, in the calming ocean as the tides subsided into gentle wavelets. Her lips unceasingly massaged his; their tongues danced to their eternal passion. Her arms gently hung around his neck as he alone kept them afloat a little too far from shore to be safe, but she was. For him, she always was. For hours having a chance to speak, they had chosen not to. And while both knew that their precarious situations desperately needed a resolution, neither wanted it to end just yet.

Her skin, soft to the touch, still warm from the waning sun sent his blood rushing. Her soft coos, excited him in ways he had not experienced in years. The depth of feeling he felt for her in this moment, betrayed all that he knew about human experience and the mechanism of time. He thought he knew well enough, after years of training and the nature of fates' plans for him, the difference between his dreams and the reality bestowed upon him. For he was, of all things a man without an identity, a ghost, a wanderer, and probably meant to die in his turn as with all of his kind. And a man like that, much less than a man, all things considered, without contacts, without mourners, without a real life but merely a shadow of one, had no right to dream.

Yet there she was, every kiss; destroying his world.

"Hey," Aaron managed to say in the moments she chose to breath.

"No," she replied abruptly for she knew his mind.

"I'm just—," Aaron again tried to plead with her but again there she was; adamant.

"No," she insisted. "I know, what you're thinking and I know what you're about to say. I appreciate it, I do. But not now. Not this moment. I think… after everything that has happened… I deserve this."

"Okay," Aaron said in his comforting voice. That voice that he had so often used with her.

With her legs still tightly wrapped around his waist, her arms departed from his neck. She reached behind her own neck and untangled the golden strings that held the black fabric that concealed herself from his eyes. But not yet, her hands held them in place even as the strings fell from her neck and floated gently upon the water. She leaned forward again, forceful yet gentle plant more kisses upon his lips, which knew nothing but to receive their gifts.

"Take… me…" She said in between each kiss and pausing for a moment before continuing, "back… to… shore…"

Without words, he obliged her. She hung to him, eyes closed, enjoying every moment, committed it all to the gallery of her mind; the best moments of her life, she was sure this would displace any previous contenders, as he began to move. She could feel the water upon her back displacing as she simply hung to him as if he were a boat that could take her anywhere she wished. He may very well indeed, she thought, _be that_.

* * *

"Wow, this is swanky," the enthusiastic slim blonde sat down in the chair opposite of Alfred's desk. "Who'd you have to kill to get an office like this?"

"Aaron Cross, apparently," Alfred answered with a slightly deflated tone.

The girl's eyes shot at him like a laser when that name registered in her mind. She shuffled a little in her seat, realizing what kind of meeting she had exactly been called in to.

"Really?" She said in a hush tone, practically mouthing the words.

Alfred nodded back with wide eyes.

"Does this have anything to do with the Treadstone trial?" She asked excitedly.

"Yes and no," Alfred answered. "Look, do you have the set of names I asked for."

"Yeah, but these weren't easy to get," she protested a little, "if you want them, I need to know more."

Alfred hesitated for a moment and considered his options. They were few, it had been a lot harder to get than he expected to get the resources he needed. Apparently the bureaucratic red tape of legend was more like a reality of life that he had to now, more than ever, contend with. One day, he supposed that this would all be the work of gophers and low-level analysts and his true talents would prove himself useful. But for now, with little more than a badge, he had to call in favours. Favours he would rather not use at the moment, but already, in a few hours in, he was at the end of his rope.

"Look, Colleen," Alfred said leaning forward on his desk as if to communicate an urgent point, "I want to tell you. I really do, but this isn't Annapolis. This shit is real."

"Not good enough," Colleen said leaning back on her chair, "not gonna work this time. You don't think I know this is real? I've looked at the list, ex-SEALS, SAS, Liberian veterans. I know you can't get these guys. You mean have your fancy Operations badge now but if you want my help and you want these names, you're going to have to let me in. I'm not falling for it this time, Alfred."

"When I said I was sorry, I mean it," Alfred tried to sound genuine. "Look, can't we let bygones be bygones, you're here, I'm here. Things worked out, right?"

"Tell me," she insisted.

Again Alfred hesitated.

"Alright, tell me what you already know," Alfred consigned himself to her terms.

"About Aaron Cross? Nothing official, just company rumours. Something to do with Outcome; apparently having something to do with the massacre in Manila. But again, nothing official," Colleen said.

"Well that's about all you can know without knowing anything I suppose," Alfred said rubbing his face with his hands.

He tapped on his laptop and turned to screen to face her. Colleen took to the screen with great interest, examining and committing to memory the photo and the basic info.

"Aaron Cross is Outcome 5. He's the only one left." Alfred said. "He's still at large."

Colleen didn't have words to reply. She merely looked down at her hands and the folder she held in them. A silence fell over the room as a battle of trust and conscience raged inside of her mind. Could she trust him again?

"Please, I need those names," Alfred insisted.

* * *

The waves crashed upon them, gentle yet cold. But neither of them minded. For him, it paled in comparison to the harshness of conquered terrains just days previous. For her, it had been the stuff of myths; now living it in full. Who would believe her? _Who cares_, she thought. His arms still wrapped around her, gently brushing the sand off of her shoulders. Both of them breathing heavily, trying to regain the energy that had both so vigorously spent just moments prior. He had been gentle with her, she noted. Still it was far more powerful than anything she had ever experienced or even dreamed. If she had been a doctor for the past ten years of her life, tonight was the night she was reborn as a woman again. Had she only been able to see the wet sands upon which they lay; a physical sculpture of their passion. With every curve of her body remembered, every thrust etched into repetitious ridges, every statuette spontaneously created by her grasping hand; every texture cast from her hair writhing in pleasure, every fissure created by the curling of her toes into the firmament announcing her ecstasy, even air obliged her a memory as each sweet moan from her lips danced away as a momentary ballerina into the cold air of the night.

"That… was… amazing," the cliché left her mouth, well deserved and satisfied.

Their collective silence and the stillness of their bodies agreed with the sentiment. His hand intertwined with hers; gently enveloping her slender fingers.

"It was bound to happen," Aaron replied panting, resting his head on the sands beside her neck.

"Oh yeah?" Marta asked. "When did you figure that?"

"Two nights ago," Aaron answered.

"You mean the night you were in a febrile delirium?" Marta asked still trying to regain her breath, "the night that you told me to leave?"

"You stayed," Aaron replied with a devilish smile.

"Yes… I did," Marta replied with a smile, still wearing the afterglow of her passion.

"I didn't mean sex…" Aaron clarified, "I meant how I felt about you, I knew then."

"I knew too," she replied gently as if whispering a secret to him.

"Thank you… for not leaving," Aaron said.

"You don't have to thank me for that, you'll never have to thank me for that," she replied sweetly.

Aaron smiled again and collapsed his head back onto the sand, his breath still colliding with the side of her neck, sending chills down her spine. Her naked body, only partially enclosed by his arm, rolled in towards him as her leg found just enough strength to wrap around his. Her hand stroked his face, caressing the deep folds and scars along with the stubble that had appeared since they met. His features were not alien to her, but it felt like the first that she had truly known them. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes drifted into hours, she watched him as he fell asleep, as she done two nights before when he was viralling off, as she had done yesterday when his bullet wound was at his worst. She wondered if he thought of her as his saving grace; his angel?

"Aaron," she whispered into his ear. "I know that you feel like I saved your life. But I need you to know, to _really_ know, because I don't think you do yet, that you did the same for me."

She sealed her words with a kiss.

* * *

He felt refreshed but not completely recovered. His fatigue had subsided and his shakes were gone but the headaches, intermittent as they were during the previous day, had increased in severity and frequency. He woke up to the silence of his home, in a bed far more comfortable than his couch at work. But here, alone with his thoughts, alone with the deep machinations of his mind, alone with the ideas of what he would do; he feared for this own life. Everything in his house was in order, the portrait of his grandfather who had served in World War II, with his neatly polished china inherited from the days before electricity, along with his files, both digital and hard, everything in its place, everything encrypted, a confluence of old time tradition and modern aptitude dressed in a layer of subdued patriotism, convincing himself that all that he had dedicated his life to, had been worth it.

He thought of them as ungrateful bastards when they arrived at his door, but he, being who he was and unavoidably analyzing all sides of a situation could not fault them for their impudence. The door rang, he knew they were coming, and he knew they would show up early in the morning. Most Americans suffered from some sort of depression, most pronounced in the mornings, he was no exception. And despite knowing this, he couldn't shake the feeling impending dread. _Slaves to our sense we are_, he remembered.

Still he knew if he could just tough out the morning, it would all be okay. He opened the door and let them in. They, nameless despite their badges and their declaration of identity, he couldn't give a fuck who they were, stood in that fashion that seemed to be unconsciously adopted by all government officials, thinking themselves greater than the peons they had unquestioning authority over. After all, he was the best at their game.

"It's a bit early," Byer said in his morning voice, "even for you guys."

"Let's not beat around the bush," one of the two men said, "you know why we're here."

"Wasting my time?" Byer said as he moved into the kitchen.

"I think you have that backwards," the other said dropping an envelope onto his dining room table.

Byer stared at it for a couple of moments, assessing the blank faces of the men across from him.

"You guys work quick," Byer stalled.

"The whole house of cards is falling," the first man replied. "You wanna be caught in the rubble?"

"It's cute how you think you know what you're talking about there, Starsky," Byer said feeling his dread lift and his sarcastic wit return to him. Just in the nick of time.

"Frankly, I don't give a fuck. I do my job, that's why I'm here," he replied with admirable professionalism. "Ever wonder how you got yourself into this predicament?"

"Don't get sanctimonious with me. You couldn't do what I do. That's why I've got the big house and you're playing sheriff for the Intelligence Committee," Byer said casually as he poured himself coffee into his usual Sunday morning mug. "Coffee?"

"No thanks," he replied. "You're due in _court_ Monday."

"I'll see you guys there," Byer said with a wink as he sipped his steaming hot coffee.

"Good day, colonel," the man replied.


End file.
